THE GRANDFATHER I NEVER HAD
My grandfather shows me around
in his urn, takes my coat and hangs it
next to the family portrait
and his gun
while I’m writing:
how his back lengthens
and his liver spots empty themselves.
He takes me on his lap and tells me
about our kind. They’ve got a Hades
in their veins, which burns everything
until it’s clean,
meanwhile the hole between his eyes
fills with ink and closes. My grandfather nods,
he doesn’t believe that in the end of my pen
there is also a bullet.
ON THE BRIM
But he wanted it badly so I kissed him
and the water was already spinning lace
on the brim of his ankles.
He sank. Beads of air
were strung together
and the sun also dove under.
I waited a long time at the shore
until my back started to itch.
I snickered, finally my wings
were coming through.